


the season

by arabesque05



Category: Oresama Sensei | Oresama Teacher
Genre: F/M, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-25 23:05:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17130410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arabesque05/pseuds/arabesque05
Summary: On the meaning of Christmas: the petty thefts we committed in the name of loyalty; the delinquent boys we beat up in the name of justice; and the friends we make who will crossdress for us.





	the season

**Author's Note:**

  * For [specialrhino](https://archiveofourown.org/users/specialrhino/gifts).



In December, Strawberry Love’s thoughts turn toward the meaning of Christmas: the romance of first snowfalls, the warmth of candlelight on snowy boughs, the music and decorations and general spirit of kindliness. _There is a someone I want to ask out_ , the neat characters on pale yellow, Nekomata-watermarked stationery spell out, _but I do not know if it is appropriate for me to do so. I should like to be confessed to, instead. Is that cowardly of me? But in fairy tales, it is a prince on a white horse who comes to sweep the princess off her feet — and if it should be on Christmas, how much the better! The ranking of best days to confess must surely be:_

  1. _Valentine’s_
  2. _Christmas_
  3. _White Day_



_But I have been looking around town, and everything seems so expensive: gifts, restaurants, dates. It makes me a little sad, that the spirit of Christmas should be so corrupted by such material considerations; but money is an inescapable reality of this world, and perhaps I am not so pure-hearted anymore to disregard it. As the year draws to a close, I mourn for the passing of my pure-hearted youth. In the new year, may I live more cleanly, more naively — as soft and innocent as the falling snow. As, I am sure, you must be, my dear friend Snow._

Mafuyu reads the letter out on her balcony, standing in the open air in just her stockings. The letter smells a little like gingersnap cookies: Mafuyu imagines Strawberry Love baking cookies in the early afternoon, as snow falls outside the window, and then making a cup of tea for herself, and sitting at her kitchen table and writing this letter and sending it a thousand miles on the wings of a turtle dove; and then Mafuyu bursts into tears.

The corruption of material considerations! The evil necessity of money! Did Strawberry Love suffer from lack of funds! O cruel world!—how could anyone, so kind, so angelic, so good-hearted, have to suffer the indignities of penury? It was a fallen world, it was a dark future, it was —

The door of the neighbor’s balcony rattled open. She heard the sound of footsteps, the _click-fwoomp_ of a lighter — and then Takaomi’s voice, exasperated: “Did the pigeon bully you or something?”

“I’m weeping!” snapped Mafuyu. “About the fallen state of this cruel world!”

Takaomi took a pull from his cigarette and considered her. “Huh,” he said — or maybe: “Heh.” It was hard to tell.

Mafuyu sniffled loudly and swiped at her running nose. “You wouldn’t understand!” she huffed. “Someone wrote me a beautiful letter about Christmas and romance and the corrupting influence of —”

Something soft hit her straight in the face. Mafuyu paused a moment, and then grabbed it. She pulled it away from her eyes: one of Takaomi’s shirts.

“Grubby little kid,” he said. “Don’t wipe your nose with your hand. Gross.”

She eyed him distrustfully, and then sniffed at the shirt. “Oh, yuck, is this your laundry? What the heck, Takaomi-kun, you’re disgusting — “

_Whump_. Something else landed on her face, covering her eyes. She pulled it off: another one of his shirts. Mafuyu glanced up in time to see Takaomi reaching in through the door of his balcony and then — _whump, whump, whump_.

“There now,” he said consolingly,“dry your eyes.”

She pulled the shirts off. Another one immediately followed. “How long have these been sitting there? Did you go sewer diving or something?”

“How ungrateful,” he said, “when I am showing you such Christmas charity as to offer the _very clothes off my back_ to wipe away your tears — “

“What!”

“—the least you can do is wash them for me.”

Mafuyu clawed at the fabric covering her face, but by the time she emerged, Takaomi had gone back inside and was closing the door behind him. She was left standing with an arm full of dirty laundry. “At least stop smoking!” she shouted after him. “You’ll die a horrible death!”

* * *

But some forty minutes later, after Mafuyu had filled her bathtub with warm water and dumped the laundry in, tossed in some detergent, rolled up the legs of her pants, and stepped in to churn the whole mix — she thought about what Takaomi had said: _Christmas charity_. Christmas charity…

The idea struck like a bolt from the heavens. Mafuyu leapt out of the bathtub, slipped and wheeled for a precarious moment on her wet slippery feet, and only by incredible luck and battle-honed instincts managed to not crash into any walls or break her neck. She paid that no mind. She thundered into the living room and tore through her belongings, found her wallet, seized it and held it aloft a moment like a lion cub to be presented to its worshipping subjects, and then hastily turned it upside down. Three coins fell out, rolled around on the floorboards, and finally fell with tiny rattles. Mafuyu wilted like spinach in hot water. It was still some days until her allowance. She had forgotten.

* * *

Was she supposed to leave the matter alone, then? Was she supposed to take it lying down? Was she supposed to allow human dignity to be so trampled by the vicissitudes of —

“Woah, hey, are you trying to start a fire? That’s my eraser, you’re going to —“ Hayasaka reached out a hand, but too late: Mafuyu tore through the pages of her math notebook. The eraser broke in two. “Aw, jeez,” he said, falling back into his seat, “what’s up with you? Give me my eraser back. No! — buy me a new one! You broke it!”

Mafuyu did not have time for such trivialities. “Hayasaka-kun!” she declared. “What do you think is the meaning of Christmas!”

“Uhh,” said Hayasaka.

“Peace on earth,” supplied Yui, “good will to men.”

“What?” said Hayasaka.

“What?” said Mafuyu.

“Is this — are you trying to get out of — it’s an eraser! Don’t evoke the spirit of Christmas to weasel out of paying me back for my eraser!”

“Who cares about your eraser!” cried Mafuyu. “Ninja, what nonsense! No, no! No, it’s — strawberry shortcakes! Fried chicken! Tree decorations! Ice-skating! Hot cider! The pure-hearted confession of a pure-hearted girl in the first snowfall of the year to a boy she likes!”

“ _What_?” said Hayasaka.

Yui considered this. He pulled out a notebook and consulted it: “The secularity of our country does influence the manner in which we celebrate, and the meaning to which we imbue, the yuletide season—“

“What the _fuck_ does that have to do with my eraser?”

“Forget your eraser!” Mafuyu slammed a fist on the table. “I know what we have to do!”

Hayasaka bent down to rummage in his desk for clear tape, grumbling darkly. Next to him, Yui adopted a listening pose.

“Find part-time jobs!” Mafuyu declared. She stood up, and with a sweep of her skirts, hoisted one foot on the seat of her chair. She leaned forward, with one elbow on her knee, and addressed her audience: “I’ve consulted my whole backlog of _HanaYume_ [1]: that’s how it goes. We need to get part-time jobs before Christmas, in order to have funds for Christmas gifts and dates and —“

Hayasaka raised a hand. “But why,” he protested, “do I have to get a part-time job to pay _for my own eraser_?”

“What eraser?” asked Mafuyu.

“Brotherhood,” concluded Yui. “The bonds of friendship. The fellowship of man. The spirit of Christmas.”

* * *

It was one thing to talk about finding part-time jobs, but it was another thing to actually find them. For one thing: their schedules were tight. There were classes, which Hayasaka would not give up; and the club, which Mafuyu and Yui would not. For another: the town was small, and the number of places hiring were limited.

Mafuyu combed the streets for wanted ads and hiring posters, for a solid week, to no result. Finally, staring at the crossed-out 23 on her calendar, she admitted defeat and went to consult an expert.

“ _I_ need money,” remarked Takaomi. “Why do you not offer to work part time jobs to fund _my_ need?”

Mafuyu went to his closet and flung open the door. Inside, his clean shirts hung in neat rows. She went to his kitchen cabinets and flung open the door. Inside, the cup ramens she had bought were stacked in orderly array. She went to his refrigerator —

He stopped her. “All right, all right,” he said, rubbing at his hair. He patted his pockets and pulled out a wad of receipts. Picking through the pile, he eventually pulled out a card and handed it to her.

“Give them a try,” he said. “I heard they were short-staffed for the holidays.”

Mafuyu squinted at the card: _Maid-chiato_. “What is it? An Italian restaurant?”

Takaomi waved an absent hand. “Something like that.”

* * *

It was not an Italian restaurant.

The three of them stood in dumbstruck silence, watching through the storefront windows as inside, costumed girls took coffee orders and drew ketchup hearts on golden plates of omurice. They stared at the petticoat skirts, the ruffled aprons, the little lace caps --

“A _maid cafe_?” croaked Hayaska.

“He’s such a _pervert_ ,” muttered Mafuyu.

“I didn’t even know we had a market for maid cafes in this town,” sighed Yui.

But apparently there was such a market, because the cafe was doing tidy business. There were colored lights strung up in the window, and boughs of holly and mistletoe hung from the ceiling lights. A bell jangled merrily when the door opened, and from inside, the strains of Christmas music wafted out onto the sidewalk.

Mafuyu drew in a deep breath. The scene inside the window seemed like an entirely different world, a frothy girlish dream — she was half afraid to walk in and break the spell. But there was nothing for it. She was a girl. She would have to try and learn these things. She said, “Let’s go.”

She took one side and Yui took another, and between them, they frogmarched Hayasaka inside.

* * *

Mafuyu had read enough shoujo romances to have a passing familiarity with the trope of pre-Christmas part time jobs, and she had a faint idea that — the tomboyish type that she was — she might not get a job in the front of the store. Customer service was not her strength: strength was her strength. That was fine. Mafuyu thought if she had to work in the back and lug gallons of coffee or whatever — well, it was a paying job.

She was not prepared, however, that she would not be allowed to work even in the back of the restaurant. “But manager-san!” she cried, very closed to hugging his leg if necessary. “Please, I need this job! I am a _very_ hard worker! And besides — does this make any sense?”

She flung a hand toward Yui and Hayasaka, who were on the other side of the dressing room: Yui, in the neat dark uniform of a busboy; Hayasaka, in a blond wig and lace stockings, frowning at the zipper of his voluminous skirts. Presently, Yui went over and helped him zip up.

Manager-san rubbed his nose. “Well, but it can’t be helped,” he told Mafuyu. “Hayasaka-kun suits the uniform better, _and_ he speaks French. And busboys need to be discreet — “

“I am the _soul_ of discretion!” Mafuyu assured him.

Manager-san was not convinced by this. Mafuyu spent the next ten-plus minutes wheedling and cajoling and occasionally physically restraining manager-san from leaving. In the end, he wheezed, “I’ll tell you what. You’re the most persistent person I’ve ever met — I think we can find something for you.”

* * *

Which was how, bright and early on Christmas morning, Mafuyu arrived in the town square, dressed up in a rabbit Santa suit. The head of her costume was enormous, large ears flopping out of the Santa hat. Mafuyu squinted through the eyeholes, peered around the festive streets, and located a group of housewives, grocery baskets on their arms. Mafuyu steadied her head, and — brandishing flyers — approached them. “Ho ho ho!”

The housewives were not interested in a maid cafe, but Mafuyu was not deterred. Was a maid-cafe’s appeal solely in its maids? Certainly not! What about the coffee? What about the omurice? What about the ambiance? Where else could provide as welcoming an environment for a group of friends to rest their feet after their morning shopping? They didn’t drink coffee? Well, what self-respecting cafe only served coffee? The cafe had tea lattes, and hot ciders, and peppermint cocoa as well.

So Mafuyu spent her day, descending on unsuspecting groups of schoolgirls, or couples on dates, or families out to view the illumination displays. She proselytized, she preached, she waxed poetic about the virtues of maid cafes. She handed flyers out by the fistfuls.

It was hard work.

At one point, Takaomi came by, dressed in a heavy coat and red muffler. He caught side of her, stopped, smirked, and went to lean against a lamp-post. He pulled out a cigarette and puffed at it, all the while watching her with a smile of distinct schadenfreude.

That demon-teacher. Mafuyu huffed and went over to him. She grabbed at the cigarette, but he was taller and faster and ducked away first. But then, wordlessly, he ground it out against the lamp-post. “They didn’t even let you work in the back?”

“Do you have a tracking device on me or something? How’d you know it was me?”

He laughed at her in reply.

“Go away,” she said, stuffing a flyer into the pocket of his coat.

“Ha ha ha,” he said, letting her stuff another flyer in, and then — laughter still drifting behind him — he went away.

In the afternoon, however, things started going pear-shaped. The sky started to darken, gray ominous clouds gathering overhead. The costume became stuffy and heavy. Even Mafuyu’s energy started to flag. Then she ran into a gaggle of boys loitering near a crepe shop, and it turned out that the boys were all gathered to harass the girl who worked the register there, so of course then she had to beat them out, and what with all the whipped cream and strawberry syrup and powdered sugar at the crepe shop — it was a distinctly bedraggled rabbit, drenched in possibly blood but probably strawberry syrup, who showed up back at the maid cafe.

Manager-san looked upon the ruins of his mascot and heaved a long sigh. “Well,” he said. “I don’t know what I expected. But here’s how it stands: this is your wage.” He pushed forward a stack of bills. “And because you really did an excellent job drawing people to the cafe, this is your bonus.” He set down a crystalline Nekomata figurine. “But,” he continued, “then we have to account for the cleaning cost of fixing that costume.” He pulled the stack of bills back. “Do you have any questions?”

Mafuyu looked at the dirty, sticky costume: the cost of justice was high, because the aim of justice was lofty. Dry cleaning was expensive. She resigned herself. “Yes,” she said, “that seems fair.”

* * *

Hayasaka, who had been an enormous hit, was invited to return whenever his schedule allowed. So, though maid-cosplay was not a hobby of his, he understandably proud of the strength of his personal charm, and said that he would consider it. As to his earnings: he felt that they ought not be taxed to serve whatever incomprehensible purpose Mafuyu wanted. “Besides,” he said, “you still owe me an eraser.”

Yui had taken his wage and immediately eaten the worth of it in omurice and strawberry mochi.

Mafuyu had no words for this behavior. “No words,” she told them. Then she took her Nekomata figurine and departed to drown her sorrows in the illumination lights display in the center of town.

On her way there, she ran into Banchou bent over a claw crane machine, frowning in concentration. There was a cat plushie in the claw grip, but it fell as the claw moved to the opening. Banchou made an impatient _tsk_ , and dug into his pockets for more change.

Mafuyu came up to him. “Hey, Banchou.”

“Oh, Mafuyu,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “How’s it going?”

Mafuyu heaved a great sigh. Leaning against the glass display to watch him try to grab the cat plushie again, she recounted the events of the day. “So I made the money, and then had to repay the money, and now all I have is this.” She pulled out the figurine.

Okegawa glanced over — his eyes shone with a sudden light. “A limited-edition Christmas Nekomata tree decoration!” he exclaimed.

Mafuyu considered the figurine, and then Banchou, and then the figurine again. “…you want it?” she asked.

“Yes!” said Banchou immediately — and then, close on the heels of that, “I mean. Well — but you worked so hard for it.”

“I’ll sell it to you then,” Mafuyu offered. “What’s a fair price?”

Banchou rummaged through his pockets, and came up with a half-handful of coins. “I got about ¥1800 on me.”

“Done,” said Mafuyu.

* * *

She lingered a while at the lights display, looking out at the strings of incandescent lights strung up on poles and tree branches. All around her was the babble of soft voices, families out together, couples on dates, groups of friends taking photos together. She stamped her cold feet. A strange feeling welled up her throat, aching, sour — she rubbed her stomach. Maybe it was time for dinner.

Mafuyu turned around to go, and ran into someone’s shoulder.

“Ouch, hey,” she said, stumbling back a few steps.

“Grow some eyes,” advised the owner of the shoulder.

Mafuyu blinked, rubbing her sore nose, looked up and met Takaomi’s dark eyes. “You come to this kind of place?” he asked, eyebrows raised, with a faint level of derision in his tone for ‘this kind of place’.

Mafuyu gaped. “You’re — here —?” she protested.

“I’m leaving,” he said, which was not an explanation, nor any sort of invitation, but Mafuyu followed along anyway.

“Have you had dinner yet?” she asked.

“No,” he said. A pause, and then, with a glimmer in his eye, “Have you?”

“Not yet,” she answered. A cold wind blew past. She shivered and blew into her hands. “I was thinking about getting something nearby maybe — although, I don’t know, maybe it’s all packed on Christmas night.” 

Something soft and warm dropped over her shoulders. She glanced down — the red fabric of his muffler. Mafuyu stood still for a moment, and then looked over to Takaomi. But he had already walked on ahead, the long length of his strides eating up the sidewalk. Mafuyu wrapped the muffler more tightly around her neck, and hurried after him.

“How was your part-time?” he asked after a little while.

Mafuyu spent three street blocks lamenting to him about her day, the delinquents at the crepe shop, the ruined bunny suit, her docked wages—

Takaomi interrupted her. “That’s all well and good,” he said, over Mafuyu’s outraged squawks that it was _not_ ‘all well and good’, “but before you continue with the story, business first. Did you get their student IDs?”

“Oh, that,” said Mafuyu. “‘Course.” She dug them out of her bag and handed them over to Takaomi.

Takaomi cast an approving glance over her. “There’s a good girl,” he said, dropping one large hand onto the top of her head and ruffling her hair.

Mafuyu bore it for several seconds, before abruptly ducking away, red faced. She patted at her hair. “Stop, you’re messing up my style,” she mumbled indistinctly, not sure exactly what it was that she was protesting. But then a thought struck her. “Wait — isn’t this…isn’t this _theft_ to take their IDs?”

“Petty theft,” Takaomi assured her. “It’s not government issued, don’t worry; there’ll be a light sentence if you’re caught.”

She aimed a kick at his knees. “You’re a — _black-hearted_ — the worst — _terrible_ — corrupting innocent children — “

She broke off suddenly. Thick white snowflakes were falling from the sky: larger feathery clumps, glimmering in the lamplight. Mafuyu looked up, suddenly exhilarated. Snow fell on her hair, on the muffler, clung to her eyelashes and melted softly on the tip of her tongue. “Look,” she said, laughing a little. “Takaomi-kun. It’s snowing.”

Takaomi looked up as well. After a moment, he said, in agreement, “Yes. The first snow of the year.”

“Happy Christmas,” Mafuyu told him, smiling.

He returned her look quietly. They were silent for a moment, the snow falling between them. Then he said, “Let’s get dinner.”

“Okay,” she said.

They started walking again. “So what happened with the part-time job? How much did you end up getting paid?”

This preoccupied them for another two blocks. Takaomi nodded along as Mafuyu said, “—and Banchou wanted it, so he gave me like, ¥1800 for it.”

“Yeah, pretty good. That’ll be enough,” said Takaomi.

“Enough?” Mafuyu frowned up at him. “For what …?”

But they were walking up now to the answer to her question. Through the brightly lit window of KFC, an advertisement announced a HOLIDAY DEAL! CHRISTMAS DINNER SPECIAL! KENTUCKY FOR CHRISTMAS!

“And,” decided Takaomi, “I want a beer too.” He held the door open for her.

Mafuyu balked. “Wait — am _I_ buying? No! Why?”

Takaomi pointed at his muffler around her neck. “Where is your holiday spirit? Look: I gave you the clothes off my own back. The least you can do is buy me dinner.”

Mafuyu had the sudden urge to strangle him with his own muffler. “We’re getting the four-piece, not the family set!” She stomped in through the door.

“And beer,” said Takaomi, following her in. “Do they have Yebisu? Get Yebisu.”

“I’m a _minor_ ,” said Mafuyu.

“Yeah, whatever,” said Takaomi. “Get yourself a cider.”

* * *

Just before the new year, Mafuyu wrote back to Strawberry Love: _I hope your Christmas was everything you hoped it would be. Mine was certainly festive! I had coffee with friends at a cafe, and spoke to a great number of people, and then I went to a crepe shop. In the afternoon, I went to see the illumination display: a magical experience! Then an old friend walked me home, and it started to snow, and I thought about what you wrote — Christmas-time confessions. I wanted that too: a pure-hearted girl confessing her pure-hearted love to a boy she likes, during the first snowfall of the season._

_But I walked home with that old friend in the snow, and I think maybe, even if we cannot live up to that idea of pure-heartedness — there is something still to be said for what we have, as it is. Maybe the point is not to arrive at that spot, in that snow, across from that boy, 100% pure of heart: maybe the point is that we arrive there at all; or maybe the point is how we arrive there, and_ ~~_all the petty thefts we committed in the name of loyalty_~~   ~~ _the delinquent boys we beat up in the name of justice_~~   ~~ _the friends we make who will crossdress for us_ ~~ _the moments of warmth we experience along the way._

_I had hoped to send more, but my friend swindled me into dinner, so please find enclosed_ ¥300 _, and I remain, your friend — Snow._

**Author's Note:**

> [1] _Hana to Yume_ : semi-monthly shoujo manga anthology


End file.
